There was a story I wanted to tell. And I’m hoping that by writing it down, I would remember what it was.

It had something to do with opening a door, inside a monastery. It wasn’t a normal door—aside from the fact that it was situated in between landings, it was a very small door. I thought it led to a storage room. Except for the fact that beyond the wall was nothing.

Going inside the door would’ve taken you to empty space, a story up. You would have fallen if you’ve gone in. Should have fallen. To the garden below. The garden outside. But I didn’t fall down.

It was dark inside. There were no windows, and my only source of light was from the door I was slowly leaving behind.

There shouldn’t have been a room inside the door. I shouldn’t have been able to enter it at all. But I was already inside, and I could hear whispers. Soft chants permeating my consciousness, surrounding me as I squint my eyes to try and see if there was anything inside.

There was some thing. It was just that one thing. And even if I wanted to describe it, I wouldn’t be able to. I couldn’t see it properly. Just a rounded outline that grew as I came closer to it.

And then the chanting stopped. And I could hear the door behind me, creaking as it started to close.

I felt a pair of eyes sear into me. The rounded outline continue to grew even though I’ve already stopped moving towards it.

I ran.

I ran out of that dark room, and I shut the door behind me.

I could still hear the chanting. From inside the room. The door knob started to move.

The door opened.

I ran.

There is a story I was supposed to share, but I forgot what it was. I’m hoping that by writing it down, I would remember. And I could warn you.

It’s about a small door that should’ve led nowhere—but took me inside a dark room…